Star

Sundays were boring, rainy ones even more so. Not that both Vinz and Angelino usually cared much about going outside, but still.

So here they were, the skeleton mindlessly scribbling down some runes (“What’re those for?” “Mostly wealth and productive energy. I was hoping Pipo could give me a raise soon…” “Heh, right, like that’d happen.”) while his hybrid friend kept mashing the TV remote, flicking from channel to channel in search for something other than shitty reality shows. Angelino grunted. “Fucking commercials everywhere. We get it, we’re broke, stop getting up in our faces about it!”

“Try to find a cooking show or something.” Vinz suggested, not tearing his eyes away from his work. His roomate smirked. “While watching Ramsay roasting the shit out of people is hilarious, I don’t feel like being shown fancy food I could never have.” He sighted, flopping sideways into the couch, and kept mashing the remote. The hothead next to him made a frustrated noise and glared at him.

“- Dude, stop moving so much! You made me mess up that line! Now it won’t work!

– Aw, did I… ruin your rune ?

– UUUUURGH. I’m going on the roof. Don’t let the roaches eat my cereals this time.”

Vinz picked up his stuff, bitching about cheap puns and esotherical shit, then left the flat flipping Lino off. The other responded in kind, snorting. “Drama queen.”

The half-alien dragged his attention back to the TV and lost his smile. Right there on the screen was a familiar brown, humanoïd bat, showing off his gold collar and tacky sunglasses, in the middle of overly sexualized women. He was… singing, maybe? Something about money and whatever element he’d picked in the periodic table this time.

Angelino groaned in annoyance. Really? Willy still hadn’t gone down from his fame rush? “Whatever. Give it a few more weeks and his crew will kick him to the sidewalk.” he thought.

That was one of this universe’s law, a constant: nobody could stand the whiny bat for more than a few months. Hell, Vinz and him were his kinda-friends, and even they couldn’t take his bullshit for more than a few hours a week. Especially Vinz. The hothead was still pissed at him for pussying out that one time, leaving them both bruised and bloody, at the mercy of-

The hybrid changed the channel. Nope. Let’s think about something else.

That one was a music channel too, but a less obnoxious one. Hm, old-school pop music. He could live with that. He propped his feet on the coffee table and grabbed a few Froot Loops out of Vinz’s bowl. No one will ever know. Without even looking up, he tossed them to the ceiling with a flick if his hand.

They didn’t come back down. Only the sound of thousands of tiny, chitinous bodies above him, and a little crunching noise. That’s right. Feed, my children, feed!

As the minutes passed, Lino found himself getting into the upbeat, repetitive music. Head bobbing up and down, socked feet twitching to the beat, eyes closing of their own volition. Fingers tapping on the rough fabric of the couch. He couldn’t help himself; even the shittiest music could get him in that state if it had a decent beat going for it. Stop thinking about anything for once, slipping into mindless motions…

He didn’t remember getting up, didn’t remember starting to lightly swing his hips from side to side. But he didn’t care, because it just felt nice.

 

***

 

Vinz was doomed. He was so doomed.

This was supposed to be a normal day, y’know? He was supposed to come back to the flat and keep being bored out of his mind with his best friend until they both passed out on the couch. A typical sunday, like countless other sundays before it.

Yet there he was, frozen stiff in the doorway, his flames turning bright green because fucking Lino was dancing in the middle of the living room and he-

That was so…

Fucking…

AAAAAAAAH-

Well that was awkward. He didn’t know if he should to turn back and leave or make himself known. Lino had his eyes closed, features lax, so he probably wouldn’t spot him for a while. Part of him thought that a mortified Lino would be cute funny to see. Another wanted to record the scene for later use as blackmail material (“This is payback for using me as a barbecue, you little shit!”).

As for the last part… well, he hadn’t seen Lino so relaxed in a while. He should let him have his fun while it lasted…

Unfortunately, fate -that bitch- had her own agenda and didn’t let Vinz settle on a decision before the oblivious hybrid yelped and lost his balance, a stray pencil having rolled under his heel.

That day ended with Angelino nursing a mild concussion (courtesy of the coffee table) and yelling at Vinz to stop leaving his shit everywhere, while the latter apologized profusely. “Or just don’t dance with your eyes closed. Dumbass.” the hothead thought.

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